The Collage Foundation: Travel

Kripalu cures the incorrigible

by Sherry Ayres

It was the morning of my 30th birthday, and I was winding my way towards Western Massachusetts in a Ford rental. Gaunt gray trees stood along the side of the Taconic Parkway like etchings in the fresh snow. Every hour or so, my cell phone would erupt in mechanical melody. Birthday well-wishers.

"Thirty, huh. So, what are you doing to celebrate the Big Day," they asked.
"I'm actually on my way to Kripalu," I'd reply.
"Kri-wha'?"
"Kri-PALU. It's a yoga and health retreat center," I'd reply only to be met with a split-second silence, followed with a genuine, "Cool. Who are ya going with?"
"Nobody. I'm going by myself."
And that's where I'd lose them.

Ask someone to imagine a 30th Birthday Celebration, and they'll most likely think of an all-night bash, plenty of bubbly, and a no-quit dance floor, or, at least, a small dinner of good food, good wine, family, and friends. My decision to spend my birthday alone, never mind sequestered in some alternative mind/body sanctuary, seemed a bit strange. So why was I doing it?

The past year had been one of tremendous change and growth for me. I had quit my job, uprooted my entire life, and moved 200 miles away in the matter of four weeks. I left a stable salaried position for a string of uncertain temporary freelance gigs. I had just ended a tumultuous year-long relationship for the third and final time. I often did not know where my next month's rent would come from, and I had never been happier. I finally felt like I was living for me, living out of joy, not fear or expectation. I wanted to spend my birthday in a way that honored that. Nothing less would do. That's when I thought of Kripalu.

Finally arriving at the clapboard-shuttered hamlet of Lenox, MA, I peered over the jumbled stone wall lining the road. Until, the bright vermilion letters appeared: Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health (hyperlink www.kripalu.org). The sign marked the bottom of a long climbing drive. Looming at the top was a massive seventies-era red brick building, flanked by long wings, which were dotted with rows of small identical square windows. Its roof crowned with an enormous steeple that punctured the sky. It looked like a cross between a catholic school and a mental institution.

Oh God, what had I done!

I crept up the drive and pulled into a parking lot teeming with aging Hondas and Subaru Outbacks, their bumpers punctuated with leftist slogans. When I had imagined my birthday sojourn, I had imagined being, well, by myself. I had brought three books, my journal, and a yoga mat. I pictured myself spending time in between yoga sessions, reflecting on life and how I wanted to spend the next thirty years. I hadn't considered the fact that other people would be at Kripalu too. But despite being two days after Christmas, the parking lot was so packed that I could barely find an open spot.

Who were these other people? What were they going to be like? In addition to the self-directed Rest and Renewal retreat program I was attending, Kripalu hosts a yoga teacher certification program and a series of transformational workshops. "Boot Camp for Goddesses," "Dreamgates: Journeying to Inner & Outer Worlds" "Healing the Traumatized Heart": Titles from the catalogue flashed in my mind. My flutters of anxiety metamorphosized into crushing dread.

I parked the car and sat there, as frozen as Lake Mahkeenac below. I didn't want to be a part of some new-age, touchy-feely, love fest. But what was I going to do? Turn around and go home. "OK. Calm down." I reminded myself, "You don't have to talk to anybody else while you're here if you don't want to." With that assurance, I grabbed my things and headed into the building. The entry way was lined with strips of wood paneling and mottled carpet. I imagined that a latticed confessional screen might be around the corner. The disturbing Sunday School memories subsided as I entered the lobby. The trill of pan flutes and the aroma of warmed herbal oils wafted through the air. Though predictable, the scent and sound combination worked. My jaw began to unclench. The tension in my shoulders eased. I approached the registration desk. The staff were warm and friendly, speaking in soft soothing tones that I surprisingly did not find annoying. Until...

"And, here, Ms. Ayres, is your name tag. We ask that you wear it at all times while on the premises." Name Tag!! Patchouli oil, be damned! The crick in my neck was back. I was an irreverent rebellious, have-to-sit-in-the-back-of-the-bus, kind of kid. And, admittedly, an even worse adult. Staring down at the big black block letters S-H-E-R-R-Y, I was overcome with the horrifying images of endless name games, ice breakers, and unsolicited interpretations of my aura.

What I thought: 'Listen lady, I basically had to assure myself that I need not interact with anyone during this visit, just to step foot in the door, and now you're telling me you're want me to plaster my name across my chest!'

What I said: "Thank you."

I stretched out my hand and exchanged the plastic rectangle for a tight smile. I've had a lot of firsts in my life. The first time I moved to a country where the only thing I knew how to say was 'hello'. The first time I jumped out of an airplane. The first time I watched a sangoma go into a trance to contact the ancestors. I've sought these firsts. I've gone half way across the world for them. Change is a word that many of my own friends would closely associate with me. Only a few of them know, though, how much I dread it. I face the prospect of something new like a toddler digging their heels into the carpet at bedtime. Though appearing to casually stride down that long dormitory hall, I knew my feet were searching for a toehold now. Finally at thirty, I'm able to recognize when I'm acting like a petulant child, even if - thankfully - only in my mind. I would get over it. I always do. But the 'in-between' time, well, it's not always pretty.

With that thought, the number 210 appeared before me. Beneath the decaled digits hung a handwritten note, "Christy, your new roommate, Sherry, will be arriving today. Please make sure the room is ready for her." Kripalu offers a variety of rooms from lake view suites with private bath to small four-person dorms. The price difference between lodging options can be significant. So, I had opted for a shared double, figuring that given the holidays, I would likely have the room all to myself. Yeah, Christy probably figured the same.

I entered the room to find an electric toothbrush perched on the white ceramic sink, an NFL tote bag sat on an IKEA inspired beechwood veneer dresser, and a pack of Mermaids tarot cards nestled on the bedside table. I had NO idea what to expect. Christy ended up being the perfect roommate. A trim blond from upstate New York, she was at Kripalu for a week-long teacher training program. We kept the perfect distance from one another, exchanging pleasantries and some small talk. No prying personal questions. No uncomfortable need to share. Our conversations mostly centered around our daily activities at Kripalu. Or should I say inquisitions, as they typically involved me pestering her with questions, "They have a sauna and whirlpool here?" "Where is it? "How do I register for a facial?" Finally at her irritation threshold, she responded to my latest inquiry with her own. "Didn't you go to the Orientation session?" Orientation session. HA! Orientations are for suckers! Ya know, suckers who want to know their way around. I guess I was having another Metallica moment.

Thanks to Christy actually reading the daily schedule, I was able to catch the last yoga class offered that evening. After an hour and a half long session, I was splayed out underneath a warm blanket in Savasana (corpse pose). Cushion under my knees. Compress over my eyes. I almost fell asleep right there on the floor surrounded by complete strangers. It would have probably been a better night's rest than I've had in a long time.

But once revived, my wariness returned. Before heading to the dining hall for dinner, I outfitted myself with a very large book. Name tags also serve as admission tickets for the dining hall and other areas on the grounds. Having 'mistakenly' left mine in the room, I nonchalantly strode past the dining room attendant while looking the other way. I was in. The dining hall resembled a school cafeteria, until you peer through the sneeze guard on the food line to find steamed kale, barley, and mung beans in the steaming silver platters below. Predominantly consisting of fresh local produce, the menu at Kripalu is all natural and vegetarian. I loaded up on the mixed greens, walnut, and feta salad, creamy split pea soup, and steamed broccoli and brown rice, and sought out an empty table. From behind the screen of my book, I surveyed my fellow diners. There were a number of families, their sprite-like children darting around the tables. Lifelong girlfriends dished about their latest sagas between spoonfuls of soup. Elderly couples sat in comfortable silences together. It was a mixed group. Bits and pieces of their conversations washed over me. Unable to concentrate, I kept rereading the same line over and over again. I helped myself to second bowl of soup, only to be characteristically overstuffed and regretful a few minutes later. I grabbed a mug of coffee and went off in search of a quiet place to sit and read. I came here to reflect upon my life, not listen to strangers kvetch about theirs. But their voices kept ringing in my head. Finally at nine-o-clock, I gave up and headed back to the room to go to sleep.

I awoke to the whirl of Christie's electric toothbrush. Normally, such an occurrence would plant the urge to give her a new definition of winter fresh, but honestly I was grateful for the extra prodding. After the night before, I wasn't rushing to meet the beginning of this new day. I had already slept through the two early morning yoga classes, and would miss breakfast as well, if I didn't get up soon. I dragged myself off to the dining hall, but purposely missed the morning Sharing Circle, a daily ritual at Kripalu.

But, I couldn't stay a program renegade forever. So the morning Pranayama workshop found me sitting around the circle. A call for a show of hands from Shira, the instructor, however, revealed I was not the only slacker in the room. More than half of the circle had also slept in that morning. I was feeling a little bit better, as Shira launched into her overview of pranayama's various breath techniques. The Uji breath, formed by restricting the back of your throat, reverberates through your chest like the crashing waves of the ocean. Sounding like a conch shell held up to your ear, I closed my eyes and followed my breath. My mind was quiet, resting from its typical dance of flitting from my grocery list, to planning my next weekend, to replaying an old conversation.

Following the breath techniques, we stretched our limbs with a series of asanas. At the conclusion of the class, Shira asked us to turn to the person on our right and share with them how we felt. Forced participation! My game plan was foiled. On my right was a stocky silver-haired man, probably in his mid-forties. I shrugged my shoulders and said, "I feel fine." "Me too," he replied. And then, almost despite myself, I continued, "You forget how it feels to be in your body, ya know." What was I saying!?! "We walk around only in our heads all the time, like we're big lollipops. A massive round head with just a stick holding it up." Evan was a local corporate exec who took Kripalu's weekly community classes for only three dollars. Yoga gave him a sense of relaxation and peace that he hadn't been able to find elsewhere. He knew exactly what I was saying.

If you've ever picked up the occasional yoga class, you will recognize the following catch phrases: "Be in your body." "Turn inward." "Breath into it." Intellectually, you comprehend the words coming out of your instructor's mouth, but you don't actually know what s/he is saying. As I progressed through my day at Kripalu, one which was packed with more activity than I usually get in a week, I started to intuitively understand. The phrases weren't something you were meant to do; they were how you were meant to be.

Every moment, I was actually where I was. I wasn't in a rush. I wasn't going anywhere. My thought-provoking books laid at the bottom of my book bag unopened. I thought I would be scribbling daily revelations in my journal. There weren't any. In fact, nothing was weighing on my mind. I was content to follow my breath, watch it rise and recede, and then direct it into different parts of my body. A few steamed vegetables, barley and mixed greens for meals would content me at meals. I wasn't hungry. When I walked I felt my feet connect evenly with the ground and push off against gravity. I felt taller, lighter, and more flexible.

Evan was not the only person I had such an encounter with at Kripalu. Without any attempt or thought on my part, I found myself with a conversation partner at every meal and every activity from there forward. The conversations were always enjoyable, brief, and lacking in any sense of obligation. They typically centered upon the imparting of some innate wisdom, perfectly crafted for the aid of one party or another. I had lunch with a mother whose eight-year-old daughter had recently started playing soccer; she was hopelessly lost when it came to the sport. I've played soccer since I was about her own daughter's age.

What had I been so afraid of?

It's easy to stand on the outside. Safe to be the unknown observer. Being a part of the action, things can get messy. You can't know the right thing to do. You just have to go with what you feel.

I suddenly flashed back to the images of the dining hall attendant, the registration clerk, and my Pranayama instructor. But this time, I remembered looks of bemusement on their faces. Had they always been there? It's hard to say, but it seemed clear to me that no one had been bothered by my antics. It hadn't mattered. Kripalu accepts everyone, no matter where they're at.

My last morning at Kripalu, I woke before my alarm at 5:30AM, to get in one last yoga class before I left. It was a vigorous vinyasana class, held in a room heated to ninety degrees. To my surprise, the session wasn't as difficult as I had feared. Before hitting the road, I bypassed filling up my travel mug with coffee. I realized that Kripalu hadn't changed me: I was able to go to Kripalu because I had changed.

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